I looked at the police officer, who was waiting with his pen poised.

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady and clear. “I did.”

I slowly reached under my wet apron.

I pulled out the plastic-wrapped manila folder.

The plastic was covered in soot and water droplets, but the paper inside was completely dry.

“What is that?” the police sergeant asked, squinting in the dim light of the emergency flares.

“These are the pristine medical records of the late Eleanor Hawthorne,” I said.

I saw Celeste’s eyes narrow, her pupils shrinking to tiny black dots in the red flare light.

For a fraction of a second, her perfect, elegant composure cracked.

“Those are private family documents,” Celeste said quickly, taking a step forward.

“The maid has no right to be handling them.”

“Elena is not just a maid,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously low. “She has my full trust.”

He took the folder from my hands, his fingers brushing mine.

He unzipped the plastic sleeve and pulled out the thick stack of white papers.

The pages were clean, preserved by the secret compartment behind the mahogany bookcase.